


walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns

by Merideath



Series: into the woods [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Blood, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, F/M, Flirting, Folklore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merideath/pseuds/Merideath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The path is gone. No trace of it between the gnarled roots of oak trees casting lacy shadows on the forest floor. Darcy steps carefully over a tumble of rocks, that might have once been a wall and now stand as the marker where the veil is thin. Parkland becomes the wild woods of the stories held in memory, and tattered books rotting with age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [this picture of a forest deity](http://41.media.tumblr.com/e6a2bcefd4f2b8da964cc54854409054/tumblr_nfhy8y0VUz1rn2lrdo1_500.jpg), [this beautiful drawing of Darcy](http://sadirapookie.tumblr.com/post/48743595095/might-as-well-draw-all-the-ladies-from-thor) by Sadirapookie, and Aenaria and I geeking out over mythology and folktales...as you do. I am unbelievably happy to have found that I hadn not lost all my gifts for story telling, this may not be a story that is everyone's cuppa but fairytales and mythology have always been of interest to me. I have a few other tiny projects in the works, I'm slow but I'm not letting depression and anxiety win, I am doing well in my recovery and writing is one of the things that is helping. No matter how slow I am to pull the threads of a story together.
> 
> Thanks go to Aenaria for beta'ing and encouraging me to write just a little bit more than what I started with on my phone. 
> 
>  
> 
> 'Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns.' Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor.

The path is gone. No trace of it between the gnarled roots of oak trees casting lacy shadows on the forest floor. She steps carefully over a tumble of rocks, that might have once been a wall and now stand as the marker where the veil is thin. Parkland becomes the wild woods of the stories held in memory, and tattered books rotting with age.  

 

"I’m lost," she whispers, clutching tight to the strap of her bag. The words slip from her lips, carried away on the breeze. A wind that tastes of winter as it slips, between the thick trunks of ancient oaks, bearing their mistletoe crowns.

 

The autumn leaves, red and gold, crackle beneath the heavy tread of her sturdy leather boots. Sunlight filters down to the forest floor, but its warmth barely touches Darcy. She shivers, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. The red wool of her sweater tickles  the palms of her hands. She is lost and dusk is nearing, when the great park closes its gates until the dawn of tomorrow.

 

“Fantastic, this is just how I wanted to spend my day off, freezing to death in Windsor Great Park,” she says, giving into a fit of temper and stomping her boot on the ground. She kicks at the leaves and sends a pebble clattering against the nearest tree.

 

A hawk sits among the branches of the oak, a rabbit clutched limp beneath his talons. Red stains fur, feathers, and the oak's twisting branches. Ice slips down her spine at the hawk’s angry warning.

 

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” she says, swallowing hard and turning her head away. The shadows of the trees swirl around her legs, and she stumbles backwards. Holly branches pierce through her jeans and sweater, as she falls to the earth in a graceless heap. Leaves and moss cushion her fall, but her hands are bruised and scraped. Pushing her glasses back up the slope of her nose, she focuses on the sharp bit of stone biting into the flesh of her palm.

 

"Are you lost?" says a voice in the shadows, deep and rumbling. The nails of her left hand dig into the earth beneath her, the shard of stone forgotten. She reaches for the pearl and silver penknife in her pocket, her only weapon but the words contained in the books nestled safe in her bag. The metal of the knife is warm, the blade a small comfort.

 

"No?"

 

"Are you certain?"

 

"Yes...no."

 

"I see," he says, and there is laughter in his voice. A bubble of warmth rises in her chest and  Darcy shakes her head to clear her thoughts.

 

She sees him then and the breath leaves her lungs. He is beautiful, as he stands there naked and proud, and far from human. A red fox a silent companion, at his heel, a cunning smile on its furry lips before it slips into the undergrowth. The tip of its snowy white tail the last thing she sees.

 

The man’s hair, the color of wheat and green grass, spills over his forehead, a darker beard covering a strong jaw. Full lips the colour of rose petals curve in a smile that flickers between sweet and carnal.  Blue eyes flash green within their depths. Rising from his temples in curling arcs a stag's horns sit. A crown of bone above his head.

 

_The forest god. Herne._

 

"A."

 

"What?"

 

" _A_ god of the forest not _the_ god. I am not Herne."

 

"There's a difference?"

 

"I'm an aspect of the forest god."

 

"But you're still a god? Not just godly," Darcy says, waving her hand at his naked torso, where swirling vines decorate his skin, in twisting patterns that knot and unknot, bloom with moon white flowers the shape of stars. The marks stretch across wide shoulders, broad chest and narrow hips, darkening over his muscular thighs and painting his feet in a green dark as starless night.

 

"A god of the forest, but not _the_ god of the forest?."

 

"Something like that."

 

"Got it. So if not Herne what do I call you?"

 

“I was known as Steven once. A soldier,” he says, voice grave. He stands mere feet before her, though she never saw him move.

 

Darcy blinks, and for a moment sees the image of a soldier, face pale beneath dirt, a red flower blooming over his chest as blood spills onto frost covered leaves. A vision that sends ice to chill her blood and pierce her heart, as the solder gasps his last foggy breath and tree roots break from the frozen ground to wrap around his limbs.

 

Tears prick at her eyes but do not spill down her cheeks. “You died...”

 

“In the war.”

 

“And the trees…”

 

“The forest claimed me as guardian,” he says, voice reverent, as one hand raises to trail his fingertips along his antler. Without thought Darcy reaches up, to  brush her own fingers over the bone. It is both smooth and rough, and very real beneath her fingers. Her breath stutters on her lips, and when she fills her lungs with sweet air she breathes in the scent of the woods, green growing things, and musk.

 

“You’re hurt,” he says, cradling her hand in his.

 

“It’s nothing,” she says and his lips twitch. He pulls the shard of stone from her hand, and blood wells into her palm. Steven twists her hand and drops of blood splash onto the forest floor. “Ow, that hurt.”

 

As the words fade in the air, he rubs his thumb over the wound and her jaw drops as the cut heals. A green vine curls where the scar should be, stretching out across her skin to ring her wrist.

 

“You healed me,” she says Darcy’s pulse jumps and he continues to sweep his thumb across her palm. His blue eyes stare into hers, green sparking in their depths.  

 

“Yes.”

 

“You look at me as if you know everything there is to know about me.”

 

“Don’t I?” he says, cocking his head to the side, mouth twisting up. A grin that sets something rattling loose inside her, warms her chest and curls across her cheek bones.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Perhaps,” he says, with a low laugh, shaking his head from side to side, heat warming his cheeks. Darcy’s eyes flick up to watch points of his antlers scrape against the darkening sky. “You best go before the moon rises.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Wild things roam the forest at night.”

 

“Wilder than a naked man with horns?”

 

“Antlers, and yes. There are things that tread the shadows that even deities fear,” he says, bending down to press his lips to the vine twisting on her palm. Heat licks down her arm and she feels the kiss all the way to her toes. “Be careful, Darcy, don’t stray from the path.”

 

“What path?” she turns to look and behind her through the trees the path winds like a spool of ribbon. “That wasn’t there…”

 

_She is alone in the woods. Feet firm on the path. A cuff of twisting vines and moon white flowers on her wrist._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> You can read more about Herne the hunter [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herne_the_Hunter).


End file.
